


just wanna get a little bit closer

by ShowMeAHero



Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [20]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Big Dick Richie Tozier, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Dreams, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Edgeplay, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Making Out, Married Couple, Married Sex, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Praise Kink, Tender Sex, Tenderness, Wet Dream, dad bod appreciation squad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21580003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: “I had a super weird dream,” Eddie tells him. Richie makes anothermmmmsound, low in his throat, deep in his chest. He’s still mostly asleep. “I had a dream we were dating when we were in college.”Richie laughs. The sound rumbles in his chest, and he rolls over to face Eddie. He squints one bleary eye at him. “Dorm room wet dream?”“No,” Eddie says. “No, we were back in Derry over winter break, and—” Eddie stops, then says, “Oh, my God, I never showed you.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1493912
Comments: 34
Kudos: 681





	just wanna get a little bit closer

**Author's Note:**

> not only is this the EXTREMELY self-indulgent dad bod praise kink fic i needed to write eventually, this is also officially part 20 of this series, AND it puts us over 150,000 words! i just wanted to tell you guys how much you fucking mean to me and how much i love writing this series. it's become a really amazing outlet for me, and i love meeting with and talking to all of you because of it. sorry to be so saccharine on main right now, but i love writing this (un)official IT CHAPTER THREE and i kind of never want to stop right now.
> 
> anyways, that's all! sorry for rambling! enjoy... just, _so much_ smut.
> 
> Title taken from ["Want You In My Room"](https://open.spotify.com/track/6cDPJqKw8PUBw5SigKszrL?si=MDdc8IOBQRGvp_sVni4esQ) by  
> Carly Rae Jepsen.

Eddie’s woken up by a soft tapping sound. At first, he can’t place what it could possibly be. He knows he’s on the second floor, and—

His eyes snap open and he looks over to the window. Sure _fucking_ enough, Richie’s hanging from the tree outside Eddie’s bedroom, grinning like a dumbass. He’s barely clinging to the ledge. Eddie leaps out of bed and throws the window up.

“Get in, you fucking idiot, you’re going to fall and snap your neck,” Eddie loudly whispers. He looks over his shoulder and realizes he doesn’t remember going to sleep, and he doesn’t remember when his mom went to sleep, either. Frowning, he turns back to Richie, now sitting in his windowsill with his legs dangling into Eddie’s room. His face is all flushed from the cold, his hair spiralling out from underneath the winter hat Ben’s mom gave him for Christmas last year. When Richie did this in middle school, he’d sit in the window just like this, feet dangling, grinning at Eddie like a golden retriever, waiting to be praised for nearly killing himself climbing the tree outside.

Now, though, they’re both twenty-one and it’s January and, Eddie realizes, winter break. He doesn’t remember going home for winter break before — and then he’s confused, because he’s a junior. What’s to remember?

He looks back to Richie anyways. Now, he realizes, Richie’s twenty-one and over _six feet tall,_ and his long legs reach all the way to the floor. Now, Richie’s big and handsome and grown into his face, in a way Eddie never really got to see before.

The whole thing is a little disorienting for reasons he can’t entirely place. He shakes it off in favor of yanking Richie into his room by the wrists and closing the window behind him. He’s got goosebumps all over from the chill outside, and Richie’s trembling.

“God, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Eddie snaps. Richie takes off his hat and shakes out his hair, running his fingers through it. It’s a long mess, but it’s curly and soft and Eddie wants to run his fingers through it himself, so he doesn’t. He can’t have that. He’s not _allowed._

“Can’t a guy visit his best friend in the dead of night without an ulterior motive?” Richie asks. He shucks his thin jacket off and drops it to the floor. “You’re cute when you’re sleepin’, Eds, I should’ve left you alone.”

“You’re such a fucking creep, Richie,” Eddie says, smiling at him as he digs through his dresser. The pajamas Richie leaves here (or, rather, “pajamas,” in quotes, actually, because they’re just boxers and a ratty old t-shirt but Richie _insists_ they’re more comfortable than Eddie’s pajama sets) are always in the bottom of his drawer. “Change and get under the covers, you’re going to freeze.”

“Be my dominatrix, Eddie,” Richie stage-moans before throwing his shirt to the ground. Eddie can feel his face flushing, and it gets hotter at the sight of Richie without his shirt on. He’s broader, now, and he’s filled out. When he was eighteen and they’d left for school, he’d still had childhood’s youth clinging to his features, to his cheeks and his chest and his limbs. Now, though, he’s—

Eddie stops himself. He’s not allowed to think of what Richie is and is not. He’s not allowed to have that right.

 _Not yet,_ he thinks, glancing over to Richie again. He’s tugged his shirt on and now his jeans are off, and he tugs his boxer briefs down, too, so he can put his boxers on. Eddie catches a glimpse of his cock, and it’s so huge that Eddie involuntarily inhales and looks away.

 _“Eddie,”_ Richie says, scandalized, and Eddie squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel his face burning. “Are you _peeking_ at me?”

“No,” Eddie lies.

“You _were,”_ Richie says. He comes over and puts his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie wants to wither up and fucking _die on the spot._ “Hey. Eds.”

“No,” Eddie says again, turning his face away.

“Eds,” Richie whispers in Eddie’s ear. He can feel Richie’s chin hooked over his shoulder, his breath on his neck. _“Eddie.”_

“I’m sorry,” Eddie apologizes, pulling away from Richie completely. He misses his warmth, and he wraps his arms around himself as he looks up at him. Richie frowns, brow furrowing.

“What the hell are you sorry for?” Richie asks. “Don’t be sorry, babe.”

“What?” Eddie says. He feels like the world is spinning, the way Richie said _babe_ so warmly and so fondly playing on a loop in his head. “Wh—”

Richie frowns again, then steps closer into Eddie’s space. He always used to do this, when they were in middle school, in high school. He’d come over, climb up through Eddie’s window and crowd him against the wall, antagonize him before he’d scoop him up and toss him on the bed. They’d fall asleep under the covers together. Eddie would wake up in the middle of the night, sometimes, curled around Richie’s back. He’d see bruises on the back of his neck, or on his shoulders, and he’d think about putting Richie in the car and driving him away from Derry for good.

It’s hard not to think about that now, with Richie leaning down to smile an inch from Eddie’s face. Their mouths are close, and Richie’s eyes are so near to his that he has to look back and forth between them to see them properly.

“You look hot,” Richie tells him. Eddie’s brain explodes. Richie takes the opportunity to kiss him, while Eddie’s eyes are, presumably, leaking down his throat.

He jerks back, looking up at Richie incredulously. Richie frowns down at him.

“Are you okay?” he asks. He looks nervous, all of a sudden. “Did I— I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong? Are you mad at me?”

“What? Richie, _no,”_ Eddie insists, because Richie now looks _terrified._ “Let’s— Alright, hold on, sit down, explain this to me.”

“Explain what?” Richie asks. He does what Eddie asks, sits on his bed and scoots up against the pillows. Eddie kneels on the bed beside him, facing the headboard. There’s a moment where neither of them speak. Richie starts looking scared again. “Eds. Talk to me, please, b— Eddie, uhh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean whatever it was.”

“I’m not _mad,”_ Eddie assures him, a little too hard. Richie looks away, out the window. “Richie, I’m not, I promise, I’m just confused.”

Richie pulls his legs up and leans his cheek against his knee, looking at Eddie from behind his Coke-bottle glasses. “What’s confusing you?”

“When did—” Eddie says, but he thinks, _We’re in love,_ and then he thinks, _I’ve been in love with him for years._ “When did we… start doing this?”

“This?” Richie asks. He motions between the two of them. “What, _this?”_

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Us. This.”

“Uhh… Like, the date? I think it was… well, when did we graduate? May 21st, right?” Richie asks. “Then, the day after that. May 22nd that year. Ninety-four.” Richie smiles a little, but then it falls off when he looks at Eddie again. He doesn’t ever want to be the reason Richie looks like that ever again.

“And what’s today?” Eddie asks.

“The first day of the year officially, baby,” Richie tells him.

“It’s the first?” Eddie looks out the window for a second, and remembers that it’s January, and it’s 1998, even if this wasn’t where he was on January 1st, 1998. He doesn’t remember where he actually was. All he wishes is that this was where he’d been instead. “Oh. Right.”

“You remember now?” Richie asks, and softens a little bit. He drops his legs back down, crossing them on the bed. He looks vulnerable, sitting there in his t-shirt and boxers, seeming like he’s not sure if Eddie would shove him off the bed for touching him. Eddie grins at him.

“Yeah,” he says, because he does. He remembers the day after they graduated from high school, when he’d taken Richie to the Kissing Bridge and showed him where he’d carved a heart with an _R_ inside it when he was thirteen, because he was so _fucking_ in love with him, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. Richie had shown him the _R + E_ right near it, told him _he’d_ carved it when _he_ was thirteen, and Eddie had kissed him until they both cried.

Eddie looks at Richie again, and really _sees_ him. He sees how warm and alive he is, how happy he looks, and he just wants to keep him that way.

“I love you,” Eddie tells him. “I love you, I— Let’s go.”

“What?” Richie asks. “Let’s _go?_ Go _where?”_

“I don’t know,” Eddie says, feeling like he’s going out of his mind. “I don’t know, let’s just— Let’s get in your car and drive. I don’t care where. Take me somewhere.”

Richie looks at him, completely bewildered. He reaches out and puts his hands against Eddie’s cheeks. “Hey, not to discredit how much you love me, babe, but are you feeling okay? You’re talking like a stupid person. We can’t just go.”

“Why not?” Eddie demands. “We can pack our stuff up and leave. I don’t want to stay in Derry, I don’t want to go back to school—”

“What?” Richie asks. “What the fuck—”

“Let’s just go,” Eddie begs him, “Richie, _please—”_

“Eddie, you’re freaking me out,” Richie says, and the whole thing starts to haze. Eddie reaches out, desperate, cups Richie’s face in his hands and kisses him like it’s the first time. It is, and it’s _not,_ somehow, so he kisses him harder. Richie separates them after a moment.

“I love you so much,” Eddie tells him. “I just want you to be happy. We can’t be happy in Derry.”

Richie looks at him, brow still furrowed for a moment, but then he smiles a little bit and shakes his head. “No. No, you’re right, we can’t be happy in Derry. Why don’t you want to go back to school?”

“I don’t know what I want to do yet,” Eddie tells him. “I have no idea. I want to take— take a gap year. Let’s take a year off and get married and go to Chicago, or Boston, or something. What do you think?”

Richie grins at him. “You wanna get married, Eds? Stop, I’m swooning—”

“I mean it,” Eddie tells him. Richie’s grin slips, then slides into a soft, genuine smile. Eddie never saw _this_ smile on _this_ face, and that _hurts._ “I love you so much, Richie. I want you to run away with me.”

There’s a beat where Richie doesn’t say anything. Then, though, _then_ he surges forward, tackling Eddie backwards on the bed and kissing him all over his face.

“Let’s take a gap year,” Richie agrees, as Eddie laughs delightedly, grabbing Richie’s worn t-shirt up in his hands. Richie kisses his throat and says, “Let’s get married. Fuck it, let’s get married _tomorrow,_ I’m not doing anything.”

“Richie,” Eddie gasps, and Richie grins against his shoulder. He kisses his collarbone, then back up to his jaw, the scratch of the stubble burning under his mouth as he moved along his cheekbone to his nose.

“I love you, too,” Richie tells him. “Yeah, obviously, let’s get married, I’ll marry you. Fuck it. Fuck it! I love you so much!”

Eddie laughs again. Richie wraps him up in his arms and kisses him on the cheek again. Eddie’s so fucking in love with him, he could combust on the spot. He looks at Richie, then blinks, and he’s in an entirely different room, in the darkness.

“Mm?” Richie asks, turning over to look at him. He’s forty years old again, and Eddie huffs a laugh, falling back against his pillows.

“I had a super weird dream,” Eddie tells him. Richie makes another _mmmm_ sound, low in his throat, deep in his chest. He’s still mostly asleep. “I had a dream we were dating when we were in college.”

Richie laughs. The sound rumbles in his chest, and he rolls over to face Eddie. He squints one bleary eye at him. “Dorm room wet dream?”

“No,” Eddie says. “No, we were back in Derry over winter break, and—” Eddie stops, then says, “Oh, my God, I never showed you.”

“What?” Richie asks. He looks marginally more awake now, and he sits up a little bit, wrapped around his pillow. “Showed me what, babe?”

Eddie feels so warm inside hearing that. Richie scoots closer and buries his face in the juncture of Eddie’s neck and shoulder, yawning loudly.

“Back in Derry,” Eddie says. “I forgot to show you. I forgot all about it.” He grabs his phone off his nightstand and scrolls through his gallery. He finds the picture he took of the Kissing Bridge back at home and zooms in near Richie’s _R + E_ in the center of the frame. Scrolling down a bit, down and to the left, he finds the _R_ inside the heart he carved when he was only thirteen. He passes it over to Richie.

“What the fuck is this?” Richie asks blearily.

“Put your glasses on, you dumbass,” Eddie tells him. Richie laughs and grabs them off his nightstand, shoving them on to look at the screen. He frowns.

“What’s that?” he asks. He holds the phone closer to his face.

“I carved that when I was thirteen,” Eddie tells him. “I completely forgot, I forgot and then I remembered— in my dream. In my dream, I took you to the Kissing Bridge the day after we graduated high school and showed that to you, and then I kissed you.”

Richie blinks down at the picture on his camera, then looks up at Eddie again. He’s already crying.

 _“Richie,”_ he says, and Richie shakes his head, rubbing his eyes under his glasses.

“That’s really cute, Eddie,” Richie tells him tearfully. Eddie laughs. “I’m _serious._ That’s _adorable._ You carved an _R_ in a _heart?_ What a fucking _adorable—”_

“I am _forty,_ you _have_ to shut up,” Eddie insists. Richie drops Eddie’s phone back on his night stand and kisses him on the cheek.

“I thought we were in college,” Richie murmurs into his ear, still tear-wet and warm and sleep-heavy. His hand roams up to Eddie’s shoulder in the dark, then higher to cup his face while they kiss. “Hey, frat boy.”

“I was _not_ in a frat,” Eddie tells him breathlessly.

“Too messy?” Richie asks. He kisses him again, and Eddie gets sick of not being able to see him. He leans over and flicks on his bedside lamp. Richie blinks red-rimmed eyes at him from behind his glasses. “Good morning. What the fuck?”

“I wanted to see your face,” Eddie tells him, threading his hands through Richie’s hair and kissing him slowly. Richie makes a small sound in the back of his chest; Eddie can’t help but push him back against the mattress after that.

Richie pushes his head back against his pillow and sighs when Eddie takes his earlobe between his teeth. “Fuck. _Eddie.”_

“I asked you to marry me,” Eddie murmurs near Richie’s ear. “In my dream. And run away with me. We were—” He stops, mouths at Richie’s throat. He sucks a hickey in there, then bites at the skin. Richie whimpers. “We were twenty-one and I just wanted to take care of you. I didn’t want you to leave and have a shitty life, I wanted to not be scared.”

“You’re not scared now,” Richie reminds him. Eddie pulls back from his neck to smile at him.

“You’re right,” he says, “I’m not.”

Eddie drags his teeth down the muscle of Richie’s neck down to the hollow of his throat. He licks there, the flat of his tongue pressing into Richie’s heated skin. Richie exhales all his breath at once.

“Look at that,” Eddie says. Richie’s face flushes, and he covers his eyes with his hands under his glasses. “Hey. Get back here, dumbass.”

“Sweet of you,” Richie mutters. Eddie reaches up and drags his hands away from his face; Richie sighs, then looks down at him. “What do you want?”

“You,” Eddie tells him. Richie huffs a laugh.

“Cheesy,” Richie murmurs. “Ugh, _fuck,_ what’d I do to deserve you?”

Eddie doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he slips his hands up under Richie’s t-shirt so he can run his hands up Richie’s soft sides to his chest. He can feel Richie’s heart hammering under his palms.

“I love you,” Eddie whispers against his neck. He slips down further so he can push Richie’s t-shirt up and turn his face into the warm skin of his stomach. Richie reaches down, tangles a hand in his hair. His heart beats faster under Eddie’s right hand; he lets his left sneak down, holding Richie’s hip in place so he can bite at his flesh.

 _“Ah,_ fuck,” Richie whimpers. Eddie pushes the shirt further, then keeps going until it’s off and he can toss it to the floor. He’s not sure when Richie’s arms got so fucking strong, but he traces the line of muscle with his tongue all the way down to the crook of Richie’s elbow.

“When the fuck’d you get so buff?” Eddie asks. Richie laughs again.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Richie asks right back. Eddie bites at his upper arm, and Richie makes a shivering sound. _“Ah,_ motherfucker, it’s just from— _Fuck,”_ he bites off, when Eddie kisses the thin skin at the inside of his wrist. “Eds, _shit,_ it’s just from carrying the girls around all the time, I’m not buff, dumbass—”

“Yeah, call me a dumbass,” Eddie whispers, making Richie laugh again, his chest rumbling under Eddie’s hand. Eddie kisses his palm. “I wish I’d married you when I was twenty-one. I wish I’d told you I loved you when we were kids.”

“Eddie, c’mon,” Richie murmurs. Eddie wraps himself around Richie, turning his face into his soft, warm skin. Richie’s got hair tracking across his chest and down over his soft belly, down into his sweatpants. Eddie can’t take it anymore; he sighs, then sits up.

“Fuck,” Eddie says quietly, looking him over. Richie’s all flushed, red-faced with the blush spreading down his chest. There’s a purple bruise on the side of his neck, teeth marks on his upper arm. He can tell how hard Richie is through his grey sweatpants, a hard line against the fabric, and so he runs his hand over his cock through his clothes.

 _“Shit,_ Eddie, _c’mon,”_ Richie gasps again.

“Let me take my time,” Eddie says. He takes one last moment to look Richie over before he settles himself in his lap, curving over him to kiss him hard. Richie inhales deeply through his nose, holds the back of Eddie’s head to deepen their kiss, and Eddie can feel him trying to grab Eddie’s hips and push up into him. He pulls back, pins Richie back down with his hands on his shoulders.

“Hey there, big guy,” Richie says, grinning way too big for how turned on Eddie knows he is right now. To make his point, he drags his hands down Richie’s chest, feeling the coarse hair and soft skin under his hands, revelling in the way Richie arches up into his hands and his mouth, when he drops his head to lick over his nipple.

Eddie bites over Richie’s nipple, shameless, and says lowly, “Who’re you calling big guy?”

Richie fucking _moans,_ hips twitching under Eddie’s hands. He says, “That’s so— That’s a terrible line, Eds—”

“Do not critique me right now,” Eddie murmurs into Richie’s skin. “I _will_ bite you.”

“Maybe that’s what I want,” Richie challenges. Eddie lifts his head, raises an eyebrow. Richie shoots him a shit-eating grin right back. Eddie ducks back down and bites just over Richie’s nipple, just lightly, just a graze of his teeth, and Richie’s eyes slam shut as he whispers, “Oh, _motherfucking_ foul _play—”_

“There’s no crying in baseball,” Eddie says, and Richie laughs, so warm and low in his chest that Eddie can feel it in the back of his teeth when he bites over the dip in the center of Richie’s chest. He can feel something ignite deep inside himself as he noses against Richie’s abdomen, and lower, sighs against his side and traces his hands back up to his shoulders.

“You—” Richie whispers, then gasps when Eddie nips at his belly. _“Fucker.”_

Eddie licks over the bite mark and says, “Yup,” so low it’s pretty much just warm air over Richie’s skin. He shivers accordingly, and Eddie smiles against his skin.

“You shithead,” Richie whimpers. “C’mon, don’t stop now.”

“Let me _enjoy myself,”_ Eddie groans, shifting to sit up over Richie again. “Christ, is it not enough that I just want to fucking look at you? You’re fucking— Richie, you drive me _insane_ sometimes. _Look_ at you.”

Richie looks bewildered, but he glances down at himself like he’s told. He looks back up at Eddie with an eyebrow lifted. “I— Alright. I look like the recovering alcoholic I am, what?”

Eddie makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. He takes Richie’s hand in his, holds it against his mouth and presses his mouth to his palm. Richie watches him, eyes wide behind his glasses as Eddie takes his hand and brings it to his own cock, over his pajama shorts.

“You drive me _insane,”_ Eddie repeats hotly. He can _feel_ his blood boiling in his veins as he guides Richie’s hand into stroking him through his shorts. Richie looks like he’s about to explode from not breathing. “Rich? Sweetie, breathe.”

Richie takes a breath, then says, “Sorry, _fuck,_ that was just so hot I forgot how to function.”

Eddie laughs and releases Richie’s hand in favor of going back to where he’d been, biting into Richie’s side and pushing his hands into his soft body. Richie threads the fingers of one of his hands through Eddie’s hair carefully, more stroking his head than anything. It’s somehow hotter than if he’d pulled on it.

“I love how you look,” Eddie tells him, voice low before he presses an open-mouthed kiss into his belly, then bite the same spot, hot from his touch. Richie’s hand tightens a little bit in his hair, and he makes a soft noise. “I _love_ you, Richie. You’re— Rich, you turn me on _all_ the fucking time, I got turned on watching you change into your t-shirt earlier—”

Richie shivers, then says, “Oh, fuck, Eddie, _come on—”_

“I’m serious,” Eddie says, and finally reaches his sweatpants. He presses his tongue against Richie’s cock through his sweatpants; he can feel the hard length of it twitch under his mouth. The sweatpants start to get damp from his mouth, so he moves to the head, licks the fabric there. Richie’s hands come down to fist in his hair again.

“I swear to fuck, Eds, I’m gonna lose it,” Richie says softly. “C’mon, man.”

“Let me take your pants off,” Eddie replies, and Richie nods vigorously, shifting his hips up so Eddie can yank his sweatpants off. He’s just as hard as Eddie could see and feel through _so_ vividly through the fabric, but it’s different when it’s just his skin like this. Eddie’s still wearing his pajama top and shorts, but it’s really not all that much fabric, considering his arms are bare from the shoulders down and the shorts expose most of his thighs, if not all of them, at the right angles. He moans, closing his eyes as he pushes his face into Richie’s hip.

“What’s the game plan here, Eddie?” Richie asks. “Tell me what you want, I’ll do it.”

Eddie lifts his head to look at him, brow furrowed. He scans Richie’s face for a second, then turns and licks the head of his dick. Richie full-body _twitches,_ head slamming back into his pillow.

“This is about what _you_ want,” Eddie says, still looking at Richie’s cock. He looks up at him. “I want to show _my_ husband exactly how much _I_ love _him._ Is that alright with you?”

Richie’s blushing again, but he nods and says, “Yes, that’s fine, that’s alright with me.”

“Good.” Eddie takes Richie’s knees in his hands and separates them so he can fit himself between them. He runs a hand over his thigh, watching the goosebumps chase his touch. “God. You really love me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Richie admits without hesitation. “So much, Eds.”

“Mm.” Eddie props himself on his elbow in between Richie’s legs, presses the softest kiss he can to the inside of his thigh. “I love you, too.”

“I know,” he breathes.

Eddie smiles against his skin. He can feel Richie’s pulse in his veins, can feel his hair against his skin; he kisses him again, then slips higher up. Richie’s cock, he can see when he lifts his head, is so hard it’s leaking. He’s not there yet, though.

“Good,” Eddie says again, and sucks a bruise into his skin. Richie whimpers, hands fisting in the sheets underneath them, so Eddie bites the bruise. Richie hisses.

“Fuck, Eddie, I cannot fucking—” Richie says, then stops, taking a deep breath and tipping his head back. Eddie takes advantage of his distraction to switch to his other thigh, licking a long line up the inside. He traces up to his cock, then stops just short of it, and Richie makes a soft moaning sound, covering his face with his hands. “I’m— _Eddie.”_

 _“I’m_ Eddie,” Eddie murmurs against his inner thigh. Richie laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical.

“You’re really gonna kill me one day, Eds,” Richie tells him, breathless. Eddie takes his soft waist in his hands, rubs into his warm skin with his thumbs as he licks the head of Richie’s dick again. Richie makes a low sound, his eyes slipping shut again as he visibly fights to keep his hips back against the mattress.

Eddie takes his hips in hand, instead, and then further down, grips Richie’s strong thighs and licks a long, hot line up his cock. He does it twice, then a third time, Richie whispering his name faster and lower in his throat each time, a quickening mantra of, _“Eddie, fuck, Eddie, Eddie EddieEddieEddie—”_ until he pulls away from him. His own dick is so hard in pajama shorts that he’s sure Richie could see it if he looked down, even through the fabric, just from hearing him say his name like that.

“Oh, you _dick,”_ Richie gasps, as Eddie licks along his skin. Eddie smiles, kisses the juncture of Richie’s groin and his inner thigh, biting at his skin there. Richie full-on _shakes_ under his hands, so Eddie lifts his head, just a little bit, to look up at him. They make eye contact before he turns his head and takes his dick into his mouth again.

Richie gets his hands in his hair, just for something to hold while Eddie licks over his head and pushes down, taking a breath through his nose and relaxing for a moment just so he can take a little more. He can’t get Richie’s whole cock in his mouth, they’ve learned from experience, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t try anyways, often and with enthusiasm.

“Eddie,” Richie manages. Eddie pulls off, looks up at him with his eyebrows raised. “I— Will you take your clothes off?”

Eddie can _feel_ his expression soften, like the fucking _sap_ Richie turns him into, even like this. Richie’s face is flushed still, and he can see freckles standing out against his nose and his cheeks.

“Yeah, of course,” he says, and he sits up to unbutton his pajama shirts halfway before he pulls it over his head. When he looks back down, Richie’s eyes are on his chest.

“See, _that’s_ hot,” Richie says, choked. Eddie rolls his eyes and shifts to pull his pajama shorts off and down. “Eddie, you’re— very strong. I don’t know if you noticed, you’re kind of a twunk—”

“If you’re calling me a twunk because I’m _short,_ I’ll skin you alive,” Eddie says into Richie’s throat when he ducks his head down.

“The only reason you got jacked,” Richie says breathily, then groans when Eddie bites the same hickey as before, “is— is because you wanted to beat me at arm wrestling. Admit it.”

Eddie huffs a laugh into his skin. He’s almost painfully hard, now that he’s free from his shorts, and he’s not sure how much longer he’ll make it, either. He lifts his head and says, “Richie, the only reason I got jacked is because _you_ are too big for me to pin down otherwise.”

Richie looks up at him with big, dark eyes, then huffs a low sound. It’s not a laugh, but it’s hot and raw and the way he’s looking at Eddie is definitely not a fucking joke.

“Then go for it,” Richie challenges him. Eddie raises an eyebrow at him, then shifts up, resting his head on Richie’s chest. “…Okay.”

“Hold on,” Eddie says softly, and Richie quiets. He wriggles his arm under Richie so he can turn him a little, hold him close, and traces his other hand down his chest. Richie shifts a little bit, squirming under his touch. “How’re you doing?”

“Pretty fucking close to blowing it, to be honest,” Richie admits. Eddie turns his face a little, bites at Richie’s nipple. Richie whimpers again, says, “Oh, _fuck,_ Eds.”

“Give it a little bit longer,” Eddie says, and lets his fingers drift further, pushing firmly into Richie’s soft flesh as he goes, tracing nonsense patterns through the hair that leads down to his hard cock, leaking against his belly. Eddie takes it in his hand, smears the precome down and uses it to slick his grip as he jacks Richie off, as slowly as he can. Richie all but sobs in his hand.

“Eddie, _please,”_ Richie whispers, “please, I’m just—”

“I love you like this,” Eddie tells him, “just here with me—”

“I love _you,”_ Richie insists. Eddie kisses his chest, tightens his grip, speeds up a little bit. Richie’s arm comes around Eddie’s back to hold him in place, and Eddie feels almost enveloped by him. It makes his own dick get _impossibly_ harder against Richie’s thigh, twitching against his skin, and he presses his hips forward without thinking.

“Fuck,” Eddie whispers. Richie holds him closer. Eddie finally gives up, unable to stop himself from moving too much; he lets go of Richie’s cock and gets up, swinging his leg over Richie’s legs and straddling his waist. Richie looks up at him, panting and sweating, red-faced, looking fucking _besotted._ Eddie traces his hands over his chest again, digs his palms in as he drags down to his belly. He’s got more than one hickey and bruise on him, and he looks absolutely _wrecked._ “Fuck, _Rich,_ you have— You have no _idea_ what you look like right now. You— _God.”_

Richie laughs softly, says, “Eds, I swear—”

Eddie takes their cocks together in his hands, rolls his hips and keeps Richie in place with his knees tight on either side of his thighs. He does the work for him, moves his hips and thrusts into his hand and moves as slick and hard as he can around Richie’s dick, until he’s gasping again, hips twitching up and eyes slipping shut as his head knocks back again. Eddie lets them go.

“You…” Richie breathes, then groans in aggravation. “Eddie, I’m going to throw you… _so far._ I am going to _shotput_ you into the next _county.”_

“Is shotput a verb?” Eddie asks, as he rolls his hips again, letting their cocks drag against each other without his hands. Richie’s hands shoot up, grabbing onto his hips, so Eddie shifts forward until he’s bent in half over Richie. Their cocks are lined up perfectly, and Eddie grabs onto his shoulders.

“I’ll shoot something,” Richie tells him. Eddie laughs as he kisses him, licks into his mouth and behind his teeth. He keeps rolling his hips, feeling Richie’s cock alongside his, trapped between their stomachs as he grinds down against him. Once he starts, he can’t stop, and he’s shoving up, and _in,_ wriggling his hand in between their bodies to wrap his hands around their cocks together again. His grip is slick with precome and sweat, and it’s disgusting and human and him and Richie, just the two of them, so he _loves_ how disgusting and human it is. It’s _better_ for it: the ultimate vengeance.

“Promises, promises,” Eddie whispers, a beat too late, but Richie doesn’t call him out on it. He’s too busy jerking his hips up into Eddie’s hand, half-kissing, half-gasping into his mouth, hands holding Eddie’s hips as he goes over the edge with a shout and comes into his hand. Eddie can feel him coming onto both of their chests, dripping over their stomachs, and he keeps going until Richie whimpers and grabs his wrist.

“There you go,” Eddie tells him. He takes his hand off Richie and wraps it around himself. He bows his head, his shoulders hunching as he folds over Richie and himself to bring himself to the edge and over it, too, heat spiraling up his spine and out his limbs as he comes in the same spots Richie has, staining the both of them again. He gasps through it, and Richie grabs his head. He kisses him, hard, until Eddie’s making soft, low sounds into his mouth, overstimulated and flushed.

Eddie doesn’t get off of him. Instead, he drops down, blankets Richie with his body and rests his head on his shoulder. He traces one fingertip over Richie’s chest, over both their fucking cum in his chest hair and down towards his cock, the trail of hair that leads over his soft belly, now wet with sweat and cum and saliva. It’s gross, but it’s _them,_ it’s _Richie,_ and that’s better than anything else, _anyone_ else.

“I love you,” Eddie says. Richie huffs an exhausted-sounding laugh.

“I vibed that,” Richie tells him, and Eddie pinches his side. Richie twitches, but he pulls his glasses off in the next moment. They’re unceremoniously dumped on the nightstand before he fishes in the drawer for their box of baby wipes. “I knew I was planning for something when I forgot these in here.”

“Of course,” Eddie says. He takes the box from Richie and opens it himself, digging out handfuls of the baby wipes and setting about cleaning Richie off first. He runs the little cloths over his skin, relishing in the goosebumps that follow as he leaves clean, slightly damp hair and skin behind. When Richie’s clean, Eddie scrubs himself down with as many baby wipes as he can justify before he dumps all the used ones in the trash bin next to their bed.

“How erotic of me,” Richie says. “One might even say sexy.”

“One might,” Eddie allows, leaning over Richie to put the baby wipes back in the drawer. “You know, you _are_ sexy.”

“Again,” Richie says, “kinda vibed that.”

“But I want you to believe it,” Eddie insists. “Richie, I thought sex was just like— perfunctonary before I was with you—”

“Romantic,” Richie comments.

“Well,” Eddie says, “it’s true. You’re— You are… _very_ sexy, Richie.”

Richie’s quiet for a moment, and then he says, “I think every guy I’ve ever fucked has looked like you.”

Eddie looks at him with a raised eyebrow. After a moment, he turns the lamp off and throws them back into darkness before he turns Richie on his side and curls up around him. He pulls the covers up over both of them again, doesn’t bother retrieving their sleep clothes again. He just tucks his face into the back of Richie’s neck and wraps his arm around him.

“I’d do anything,” Eddie admits into Richie’s warm skin, his hands holding his soft chest under his palms, “to go back and tell you I loved you back then.”

Richie makes a noise of acknowledgment, then pulls Eddie’s hands up to kiss the back of both of them. “I’m happy I have you now.”

 _It’s not enough,_ Eddie wants to scream. _You were miserable and I was miserable and we lost twenty years of loving each other for nothing._

He doesn’t, though, because Richie says, “I love you, Eds. You know that, right?” He can’t just _not_ answer. He’s not a _monster._

“I know,” Eddie replies. “I know, Richie. I love you, too.”

“Good,” Richie says, as if that was ever in question. Eddie tips his face up, lets Richie’s hair brush against his face. It’s soft, curling near his cheekbone, and Eddie sighs. When he inhales, he can smell the shampoo Richie uses, familiar and comfortable like home, and his cologne still lingering on his skin from being at work earlier, and his sweat still, and sex in the air of their bedroom. He nips lightly at the knob at the top of Richie’s spine before he kisses the back of his neck.

“Go to sleep,” Eddie tells him. Richie’s quiet for a moment, and Eddie can feel his breathing evening under his hold, his lungs slowing and his heartbeat relaxing.

“You _really_ fucking carved my first initial in a heart and just conveniently _forgot_ to tell me,” Richie mutters into his pillow after a bit. He sounds mostly asleep, but he still makes Eddie jump with surprise.

“We’re all still recovering memories, jackass,” Eddie reminds him. “Don’t be a dick. You’re lucky I carved an _R_ into that thing at _all,_ I was so terrified of getting a splinter or having Bowers catch me or— Well, really, having anyone see me and having to come up with someone with an _R_ name that’s not fucking _Richard—”_

“I _love_ that you listed ‘getting a splinter’ first on that list of horror,” Richie comments. Eddie pinches him, and Richie laughs softly. “You just— That’s so gay of us, Eddie. Did you realize? We carved _each other’s names_ into the _Kissing Bridge_ when we were _thirteen,_ in our repressed little New England hometown house of horrors, and then we got married and now we get to lick each other’s dicks whenever we want, thirty years later.”

“Wow, that was almost _really_ nice,” Eddie tells him. Richie turns around so their foreheads are pressed together. Eddie can see how big Richie’s smiling and how sleepy he looks, this close.

“It’s like a fairytale,” Richie says dreamily, then yawns. Eddie kisses him.

“Sleep,” Eddie tells him. “I’ll tell you more gay thoughts I had about you when I was thirteen if you go to sleep now and don’t wake up an asshole in the morning.”

“And whose fault was that, Monsieur Wet Dreams?” Richie asks, in what Eddie assumes is supposed to be a French accent, in someone who’s more than 10% awake. “Love you.”

“Love you,” Eddie replies.

“Love you,” Richie says, falling asleep.

“Love you,” Eddie says again, smiling.

“Lob,” Richie tries, but he’s asleep. Eddie can’t stop smiling like a shithead at his sleeping face, so he looks for a while — not his fill, _never_ his fill, _never_ enough — before he makes himself shut his eyes and fall back asleep, too.

**Author's Note:**

> You can (and should!) talk to me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon)!


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